


The Varied Misadventures of the Boozy Breakfast Club

by Audrey_Lynne



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boozy Breakfast Club, Disney Problems, Disney References, Drunken Shenanigans, Ducks, Enjolras is Not a Disney Princess, Guest appearances by all Amis, Hijinks & Shenanigans, I'm Sorry Victor Hugo, Implied Relationships, M/M, Minor Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, One-Sided Enjolras/Grantaire, Other, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-16 22:57:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2287577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Audrey_Lynne/pseuds/Audrey_Lynne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brunch isn't just for fancy ladies.  Grantaire, Bossuet, and Joly gather every Sunday at nine 9 am for their own version.  There's a lot of alcohol.  Sometimes they get carried away.  This is one of those times.  </p>
<p>Dedicated to everyone who has ever wondered why Goofy wears clothes and Pluto doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Varied Misadventures of the Boozy Breakfast Club

**Author's Note:**

> I'd say I'm sorry but I'm really not. This is more a "scene from the life" story. No plot, just fun. I apologize to Disney, Victor Hugo, and everyone who suffers through the drunken logic of Grantaire, Bossuet, and Joly. I love my Boozy Breakfast Club/Party Trio fics. 
> 
> Warnings for swearing, alcohol use, and if critiques of Disney animation and media's inaccuracies in general offend you. And in a warning I never thought I'd have to issue, "Mentions of duck penises."
> 
> This is for Jace, who seemed to need some nonsense in their life, and they made me do it anyway.

In their defense, it was nearly three am.

 

Unfortunately, it was three am in California at the time, meaning it was not quite noon in Paris, and so Enjolras insisted there was really no excuse for any of it because, _“Are you serious? It's not even noon yet.”_ And thus his control over the afternoon meeting was lost entirely, given the circumstances. It wouldn't have been the first time.

 

“Really, I would have _expected_ this from Grantaire.” Enjolras was ranting to Combeferre, who was at least feigning sympathy while trying not to laugh at the chaos. “I mean, is he ever sober? But...Joly and Bossuet are _level-headed people_.”

 

Combeferre merely shrugged. As usual, it fell to him to be the calm voice of reason. “To be fair, it is Sunday. Which means brunch, which often involves alcohol. And as much as I do hate to admit it, they have something of a point. I'd never considered it before, honestly.”

 

“I don't want to talk about Goofy's pants,” Enjolras groaned as he buried his face in his hands.

 

“ _Donald's_ pants,” Combeferre corrected absent-mindedly. “Or lack thereof. But, really, it's a fascinating point. I mean, especially when you consider the physiology of ducks.”

 

Enjolras' expression was vaguely disturbed as he looked up. “Ferre, I love you, but if this is about corkscrew penises, can we _not_?”

 

Combeferre blinked, distracted briefly from his train of thought. “Actually, I was referring to their lack of an anal sphincter.”

 

Enjolras cringed. “I don't want to talk about that either. I want to talk about the bill in Parliament.”

 

“No one's stopping you, technically,” Combeferre pointed out.

 

Enjolras dropped his head back into his hands, murmuring something that sounded suspiciously like, _“I've lost control of my life.”_

 

* * *

 

 

_Three hours earlier..._

 

Champagne brunches were good and fine for rich socialites, but as far as Grantaire was concerned, if an event involved alcohol, it needed to be done _right_. Joly and Bossuet gleefully agreed early on in their friendship. And, so, the Boozy Breakfast Club – so named by Bahorel, who joined them on occasion – was born. While gaggles of pretentious-looking middle-aged women and their significant others sipped mimosas in one corner of the Musain, with young fashionistas downing Bloody Marys in another, the trio had retired to a corner of their own. The staff knew them well, and didn't even blink at the request for copious amounts of rum.

 

“After all, it _is_ breakfast,” Grantaire insisted. “Rum's sweet.”

 

Bossuet agreed readily, as he was a fan of liqueurs anyhow, and it certainly beat the time Grantaire had dumped an entire bottle of vodka into the orange juice carafe. None of them really remembered what had happened the rest of that day, and it was probably for the better.

 

“Now, remember,” Joly said as they settled in, just past nine, as was their custom. “We can't go crazy today. We have a meeting.” He didn't hesitate to pour a liberal amount of rum into his juice, however.

 

Grantaire snorted. “Oh, that.” Sunday afternoon meetings were not customary, but there was a bill due to go before the French Parliament on Tuesday morning and Enjolras wanted to review talking points for their protest. “We just went over this stuff Friday night. Doesn't Briar Rose ever sleep?”

 

“I'm not sure he does.” Bossuet laughed, buttering an already-buttered croissant. He did a double-take at the nickname, dropping the still-buttery knife onto his pants in the process. Joly just sighed and pulled a stain-treating pen out of his backpack and handed it over. “Briar Rose? That's a new one.”

 

“Sleeping Beauty reference. I approve.” Joly nodded. “I guess I could make the argument that this bill really does suck. It's written so that it seems benign, but – well, look at how many people think PETA is actually the biggest animal rights defender ever.”

 

“Well, yeah.” Grantaire shrugged. “I mean, I get why we're doing the whole protest at seven-fucking-am on a Tuesday, but that's kind of my point. I already know what it's about. Why do we need to discuss it more?”

 

Joly nudged him. “You're not fooling anyone, R. You fuss, but like you'll pass up any excuse to stare at Enjolras' ass for two hours.”

 

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “He doesn't bend over enough for that. And I rather like the rest of him, too.”

 

“Even if he is a Disney princess?” Bossuet teased.

 

“Please.” Grantaire sipped the cocktail nearest him to check it, frowned, and poured in another shot. “I called him a Disney prince once, you know.” He shook his head. “An hour later, he finally stopped ranting about the evils of monarchical systems of government. He would have to be the duly elected Disney president. And even then he'd kvetch about Disney exerting capitalist ownership over fairy tales that should belong to the people. As if the artistic vision doesn't fucking matter for anything.”

 

Bossuet grinned. “I'm sure he'd agree artists should be fairly compensated for their work.”

 

“You're missing the point,” Grantaire said. “He is – well, he just _is_ and that's kind of the problem. He is what he is. I am what I am. And that's how life goes. If he were ever interested in me, the world might explode or something. And aren't he, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre practically married anyhow?”

 

“They grew up together,” Joly explained. “They've always been really close. Like Bossuet and – that's probably a bad analogy, considering we do sleep together, isn't it?”

 

“You're not helping your cause.” Grantaire laughed. “Ah, enough about that. Speaking of Disney and all its problems. Can they hire a CGI artist who can make more than three basic female models or what? Give me old-school animation any day.”

 

Bossuet giggled as he reached for another drink. “I know. They were doing so well up until Rapunzel, too. Don't get me wrong. I love that movie. But...every one after her...”

 

“They do _not_ look exactly the same,” Joly insisted. “I know there's similarities, but isn't that due to using the same type of animation?”

 

“It is not!” There were few things Grantaire bothered to get passionate about, but art was among them. “Look at all the classic stuff. Cinderella, Snow White, Belle...Megara! Hell, I'll even give you Tiana, though she's not 'classic.' They all stand completely on their own. Facial recognition software could identify them. But this new breed, they blend together. Pixar, Dreamworks, they've got that shit figured out. Their characters are _similar_ , but not creepy cloned. Lazy fucking art, and I expect better from the people who gave us that ballroom scene in Beauty and the Beast. C'mon? That chandelier? Now _that_ was impressive.”

 

Joly held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. It doesn't bother me, but I shall bow to your...expertise? I guess. There's got to be a better word.” He grinned. “I get it. Bossuet and Chetta have banned me from watching any medical shows with them, ever.”

 

Bossuet laughed. “Yeah. I mean, House has been banned for awhile, but you should have seen him the last time we watched some random drama that was on. He kept screaming at the TV about them not taking the tourniquet off after drawing blood.”

 

Joly sniffed disdainfully. “You want to let them give the patient permanent blood vessel and possibly nerve damage, you be my guest. And I stopped diagnosing myself with rare diseases I learned about on House after, like, the second season, come on. Differential diagnosis. It's a thing.” He smirked, as he often did before delivering his _coup de grace_ in a debate. “Is it any worse than you getting uppity about bad legal procedures in movies?”

 

“Okay, you've got me there,” Bossuet conceded. “But, really. For any of that – art, medicine, law. How hard is it to do a little research? Why do these productions pay consultants if they're not going to listen to them?”

 

“Because tiger roars sound better than real lions.” Grantaire was, admittedly, a bit tipsy, and his mind was still focused on Disney.

 

“What?” Joly frowned, then appeared to get it. “Oh, the Lion King thing. Yeah, I guess sometimes you have to sacrifice accuracy for plot, but...how hard is it to take off a rubber tourniquet?”

 

Bossuet shoved a newly-refilled glass toward Joly. “Have another drink, Jols, because we are _not_ talking about the damn tourniquet all day.”

 

* * *

 

 

Another drink, as so frequently happened with them, was both the solution to their current problem and the start of an entirely new one. Disney happened to be a recurring theme of their discussion, and somewhere around the bottom of their second bottle of rum, Bossuet asked the fateful question.

 

“Hey, guys? Why does Goofy walk on two legs and talk and Pluto's just a regular dog?”

 

Joly frowned thoughtfully into his glass, as if Bossuet had just asked him to explain the secrets of the universe. “I don't know. Why does that cat in all those cartoons go nuts over Mickey's pet fish when there's a giant fucking mouse _right there_?”

 

“Clothes,” Grantaire murmured, his eyebrows knitting together. “That's got to be it, right? Clothes represent civilization. The cat, Pluto. They're naked. Mickey has clothes. Goofy, he wears clothes.”

 

Joly's eyes widened. “Oh, my God, you're right! All the talking animals wear clothes!”

 

Bossuet nodded, satisfied. “Good. Clothes. Well, I'm glad we settled that.”

 

“No, it is not settled.” Grantaire was getting a defiant, drunken gleam in his eye that nearly always meant trouble. In its most entertaining form. “We need to figure this shit out. Because if clothes are civilization – why do we play that game, huh? Donald doesn't wear pants. What if I don't want to wear pants either, huh? Stick it to the man.”

 

Joly, as much as Bossuet loved him, had never been a graceful drunk, but his nimble mind was still partially intact. “No, no, see? Donald has a speech impediment because he _doesn't_ wear pants!”

 

Bossuet checked his watch idly, realizing they had about an hour before the meeting. At least they were in the right place. And, as Grantaire had pointed out, the bill had already been much discussed among the group. And he was just buzzed enough to think another drink wouldn't hurt. He poured the last of the rum into a glass, watching as Grantaire sputtered in realization that Joly was right.

 

“I've got it.” Grantaire had the sort of fervor about him he only got while this totally drunk. “I'll show Mr. Perfect I can care too. This injustice cannot be tolerated. They need to give Pluto some fucking clothes.”

 

“What are you going to do, start a petition?” Bossuet asked.

 

“Right, like those do anything.” Grantaire's grin was somewhere between inspired and deranged. “I'm gonna call them. Right now. Who's got the number?”

 

* * *

 

 

Fortunately for what remained of both their dignity and cell phone bills, it was indeed the middle of the night at Disney's California headquarters. However, it didn't stop them from explaining their plight to the others as they arrived. And Enjolras seemed to be the only one who didn't find it absolutely hysterical.

 

“You broke Disney!” Bahorel cackled.

 

“Well, that's decided.” Courfeyrac couldn't stop giggling over it. “I'm absolutely never going back to Disneyland until they give Pluto some clothes. And get Donald pants.”

 

“Or speech therapy!” Joly insisted. “He should have the _choice_.”

 

Feuilly nodded, patting Joly's arm. “Absolutely he should.”

 

“Guys, can we focus?” Enjolras asked plaintively but was again ignored.

 

Combeferre smiled sympathetically and rubbed Enjolras' shoulder. “We already know our places for the protest. Let them have their fun.”

Enjolras nodded, but was still pouting. “We should still review.”

 

Jehan crossed his arms. “I still have issues with their adaptation of The Hunchback of Notre Dame. That was a sugar-coated sappy ending change if ever I've seen one. Children need to be able to see the darkness inherent in the world. Also, they left out Frollo's brother. Clearly the best character.”

 

“Wasn't his name Jehan?” Grantaire asked, once again astounding Combeferre with his ability to recall details of classic literature while completely trashed.

 

“Exactly!” Jehan grinned triumphantly, even more so when Grantaire pressed a sloppy kiss to his cheek.

 

Bahorel had been circulating the room, and landed back at the table with Combeferre and Enjolras. “Hey, didn't you say something about duck sphincters a minute ago?”

 

“Yes.” Combeferre nodded, happy to have someone interested in his knowledge of nature's trivia. “They have no anal sphincters. It's why you see duck waste everywhere you see ducks. They just...go when they have to. Also, the males have corkscrew-shaped penises and rather aggressive mating rituals, but Enjolras doesn't like to talk about that.”

 

“Enjolras doesn't want to talk about any of it,” Enjolras muttered darkly from beside Combeferre, with the air of a man resigned to his fate.

 

“Cool.” Bahorel laughed. “So, like, if I got a baby duck to imprint on someone I don't like and follow them around everywhere, it would shit on everything they own?”

 

“Pretty much.” Combeferre nodded.

 

Bahorel rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I'm gonna need a lot of baby ducks.”

 

Enjolras lifted his eyes toward the ceiling, as if looking for some sort of divine guidance. “I hate my life.”

 

Combeferre rubbed his back, making a soothing noise. “Have a muffin. You'll feel better.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 


End file.
